


What They Did About It

by LesMisgayrables



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Flirting, Forgive Me, M/M, and bad flirting, but please comment, how do you flirt, i need constructive criticism, idek, it's kind of my first real fic, it's not as bad as it seems, really fluffy stuff, really it's fluffy, really stupid too, sorry - Freeform, with a nice good snog in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesMisgayrables/pseuds/LesMisgayrables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew that Sherlock knew what he accidentally discovered about himself six months ago. He had had the epiphany while eating toast. Sherlock knew that John knew what he took so long to discover about himself three months ago.<br/>They both knew the other loved them. They didn’t do anything about it. Until one day, they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What They Did About It

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So this is my first post here; I hope you enjoy.  
> I'm really just a sucker for first kiss fics, so I made my own take and this came out. Not completely happy with it, but I'm just desperate to post something in here.  
> Please take a moment and comment!!

 John knew that Sherlock knew what he accidentally discovered about himself six months ago – and to be perfectly honest, you know, too. John had had the epiphany while eating toast, watching Sherlock pace back and forth, muttering to himself about the components of some kind of acid, hands pressed together and below his chin as if praying. It had been quite easy for John; he’d been relaxed and completely content just sitting there, observing his flatmate, thinking random, forgettable thoughts – up until his mind casually said ‘my Sherlock’ too fondly to be platonic. His train of thought halted abruptly. He had blinked a few times, taken a few deep breaths, and thought for a few seconds, before mentally shrugging and thinking “huh, I guess I’m not that straight, then. Huh. My Sherlock”. It had been quite easy for John.

It had taken less than a week for Sherlock to notice something was different, and less than a month to figure out what; however, it had taken two more months to realise why _he_ felt warm inside when he thought about John’s affections, or why he couldn’t help but smile when John smiled, or why he had the strange urge to please John. It was only until he woke up one night in a cold sweat with a fantastically revealing piece of evidence in his pants that he put his mind to use and understood it all.

Sherlock knew that John knew what he took so long to discover about himself three months ago. They didn’t do anything about it.

 

“John, pass me my phone,” Sherlock muttered from his place, bent down on the kitchen table, busy with the microscope.

“Where is it?”

“Pocket,” the brunette stated. John stared, waiting for more information.

“There are many pockets in which it could be, Sherlock. Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“Busy. Left front pocket.”

“In your trousers?” he asked incredulously.

“Problem?” John just sighed and tossed the newspaper away, made his way to the kitchen, and slipped his hand into Sherlock’s front pocket, finding it empty; John looked up at him frowning.

 “Where is your phone, then?” he withdrew his hand.

“My phone is right there, John,” and indeed it was, lying in the table right next to the microscope. “You should’ve observed before shoving your hand in.”

“But you told me it was in your pocket. Why didn’t you just tell me it was in the table, instead of making me get my hand into… places?” John asked confusedly, but Sherlock merely hummed in response. John stayed there for a second, looked at the phone, at Sherlock’s pocket and then at Sherlock’s slightly tinted cheeks, and then his face lightened up in illumination. “Oh…” Sherlock’s face didn’t waver from the microscope. “Well, next time, just ask for it, Sherlock.”

John relished the way the man’s entire face reddened revealingly and chuckled to himself as he walked back to the sofa, with a blush of his own. They didn’t do anything about it.

 

 

 

A week had passed with no mention or repetition of the incident. It was the late evening when Sherlock looked out the usual window playing the violin; a slow, passionate and soulful melody. After that last note he heard John’s voice from somewhere behind him:

“That was beautiful,” Sherlock said nothing as he lowered his violin and bow, “and not just to listen, but to watch,” at this, Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gazed curiously at John while he loosened the hairs of his bow. “You really don’t know how you look while you play, do you?” John smiled softly from the sofa, but Sherlock still held his silence. John continued speaking as Sherlock gently placed his violin in the case and closed it with care. “You play with so much passion and emotion; you look, kind of… free, when you play. As soon as you close your eyes, you move differently, like you’ve let go,” Sherlock began to make way for his room. “It’s a sensual experience, to watch it.” Sherlock stopped where he was and blinked once before continuing, very much aware of the heat that was quickly spreading over him.

And if from the very next day onwards, Sherlock made sure not to hold anything back when playing, and if John noticed, well, they didn’t do anything about it, either.

 

 

 

Another week passed.

“John!” Sherlock called impatiently.

“Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming!” John opened the door to his room and started running down the stairs, buttoning up his shirt.

“Well, hurry up! Lestrade is waiting for us at the scene.”

“What exactly are we doing again?” he asked and looked around, “Where are my bloody shoes?”

Sherlock huffed and spotted them. “We’re going to make sure, firstly, that it’s not a suicide, and then we’ll probably have to break into his flat and look for library receipts,” he handed the pair of shoes to John. “If he has no library receipts older than two weeks, then we’ll have found our killer, but if there are, we’ll have to –”

“– You should use that shirt more often; it looks bloody good on you,” John smirked smugly at his befuddled expression, purposely brushing his fingers to Sherlock’s thigh as he strode past him and down the stairs.

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth once and then grinned. He followed John down the stairs with more excitement and a better mood than he had before.

 

The corpse looked like corpses do when they’re dead because of poison; there was no blood around, it looked perfectly unharmed – except for the fact that it was, well, _dead_ –, there was a syringe in her hand, used, its contents already tested and confirmed. Sherlock groaned in frustration and Lestrade crossed his arms.

“Sherlock, the door was locked, the windows don’t open, there are no traces of anyone else in here. It’s clearly a suicide! The prints on the syringe are her own.”

“Lestrade, how many people would kill themselves with snake venom? It’s very impractical, it’s not what women usually do. They’re practical; basic.”

“But the injection is clearly self-administered!”

“If she’d wanted to kill herself, she would’ve done so much more simply. She’s a veterinarian; she could’ve easily smuggled morphine, anaesthetics; she could’ve slit her wrists, she could’ve overdosed with her anti-depressants, she could’ve drowned in her bathtub. She obviously had no need of snake venom to kill herself, she had all the means available. This isn’t a suicide.”

“But,” John said, and both Lestrade and Sherlock turned to face him, “the murderer can’t have been the guy who helped her in the library. It must’ve been her husband.

Sherlock, you said the librarian was flirting openly with her. Her husband found out and didn’t like the idea. He’s a doctor, is he not? He may have given her the syringe pretending it was medication… but then, there had to be an excuse for it…” John drifted off and walked into the kitchen, searching for medications.

“John, look at the facts: the librarian suddenly picks up an interest in a customer that routinely went to the library, flirts with her for a few months, comes to her house, and the next day the woman shows up dead; no sign of the boy,” argued Sherlock while John opened cabinets. “Her husband said she’d taken him to her office before, where there is snake venom available. He took a vial and saved it for the occasion.”

“Okay, maybe it _is_ a murder,” Lestrade said, raising his hands, “but I don’t think the husband did it, John. He was pretty distraught when we interviewed him… and he’s the woman’s husband, for God’s sake! Maybe they were having problems, and maybe he’d thought about getting rid of her, but no way would he have killed her. My ex-wife didn’t poison me, but God knows she sure as hell wanted to.”

“Aha!” John exclaimed, grinning, and turned to Sherlock holding three bottles of subscription pills. “Digestion problems. Long-term,” he shakes the bottles and continues looking around; Lestrade and Sherlock stared. “She has three different pills. You don’t take three different medications at the same time for this kind of problem, unless it’s a chronic condition that shouldn’t be chronic. Usually, when this happens, it’s due to constant food poisoning. I have a hunch her husband might have been poisoning her for a long time now.”

“That’s a very valid possibility,” Sherlock stuttered, surprised. “That was… good, John. Very good.”

John grinned and glanced at Greg briefly before adding: “You look nice when you’re surprised. I might have to find other ways to put that expression in there.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way, Doctor,” replied Sherlock nonchalantly and casually strode into the kitchen, looking around. “And you yourself look dashing when you think you’re in charge of the situation.”

“Oh, I am in charge right now, Sherlock. I’m completely on top.”

“I do like to lie back sometimes and let others take control,” Sherlock minutely shrugged and turned his head to John, left brow raised. John crossed his arms and stared back.

“Do you, now?”

“Okay, boys, stop,” the inspector intervened agitated, but also amused. “I don’t need to hear this… witty innuendo flirting. Let’s just solve the case and go home. Do whatever you want to there; not here.” Sherlock sighed and walked to the living room again, ordering John to take samples of Mrs Emerson’s last dinner, and Lestrade to look into the financial state of the marriage.

 

The case was solved not long after they got out of Mrs Emerson’s house: Sherlock had tested the samples of food, and it turned out the meat was poisoned, which made the snake venom (that the husband had acquired from his wife’s vet office) just an extra measure to make sure she died; John had discovered that Mr Emerson was a vegetarian, and that he regretted what he did completely, so he turned himself in to the police and admitted to everything: he was after his wife’s life insurance money, and indeed, they were having problems in their relationship. He killed two birds in one shot, but no sooner had the poison entered the woman’s blood stream that he realised how foolish he’d been. He was completely unaware of his wife’s infidelity – the librarian’s presence had been just what John predicted: a coincidence. The boy was informed of his lover’s passing and he was devastated, also. Lestrade closed the case and bid the boys a good evening.

Back in 221B, the men were enjoying a comfortable, companionably silence with a cup of tea – prepared, predictably, by John – in their sofas, the telly turned on but neither of them watching it, so it was more like background noise. They were both thinking about what they did at the Emersons’ that they very much enjoyed and somehow wanted to continue, and they were both aware that the other was thinking about it, too. They didn’t do anything about it.

 

 

 

“Sherlock, you have thumbs in the fridge, and I think I saw a glimpse of a decaying foot in the freezer yesterday morning. Why did you have to experiment _here_? We’ve been here for hours.”

“These experiments can’t be done with severed body parts, John; I needed the full body today.”

“I brought you coffee, Sherlock…” silence.

“Sherlock, say thank you.”

“Thank you, Molly.”

“Right,” Molly said meekly. “I’m going to the mortuary, do you need anything?”

“Yes; I left my rope, shackles, and riding crop in there,” John snapped his head up wide-eyed and Molly blushed and spoke quietly.

“Okay, I’ll… okay,” she walked out of the lab and the door closed quietly after her. There was a moment of silence as John processed the information. He was reclined in one of the tables, arms crossed, facing Sherlock, who was about two meters away, in another table.

“The first time we met, you said you’d left your riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Yes…”

 _Okay…_ , John thought and observed the detective pour something into a vial of blood, watched as it turned green, and only until Sherlock put the vial down, turned around, reclined on his table and made eye contact with John did he speak again.

“What do you do with a riding crop in a mortuary?” John asked slowly, lifting the last syllables of the question, as he did when he didn’t know what to think of Sherlock’s antics.

“I measure and study the coagulation of the blood in a dead body,” responded Sherlock.

“And what do you do with a riding crop, rope, and _shackles_ in a mortuary?”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the BDSM lifestyle.”

“Sure. That explains nothing, though,” John replied calmly, but the air felt a little bit denser.

“I wanted to see if the effects of the riding crop on the corpse were different when the body is positioned in a way that exposes erogenous zones. I used a very fresh body.”

“Oh?”

“The results weren’t as extreme as they would’ve been in a live body. Shame,” Sherlock spoke as steadily as he maintained eye contact.

“Right,” was John’s only response. He cleared his throat. “That explains the rope and the riding crop. And the shackles?”

“Ah, those. I just hoped I would be able to use them; I quite like shackles; they can really take it up a notch. Alas, the subject was less responsive than I would’ve liked – of course he was, he’s dead.”

“Of course,” John blinked and tried very hard to reign in his imagination, at least while he held eye contact with the man who could see everything. _Like the Eye of Sauron_ , his mind suggested. He opened his mouth to giggle at the thought but what came out was closer to a wail. He cleared his throat again in an attempt to clear his mind at the same time. “You shouldn’t have those shackles; I’m sure they’re Greg’s. He won’t like it when he notices they’re missing.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t experiment on you, John. You would’ve thought of _Greg_ the whole time,” he scrunched up his face at the name. “It wouldn’t do.”

“I wouldn’t,” John was quick to correct, but then realised how obvious he was being. “I mean… I wouldn’t have thought of anyone, because it’s an experiment. For science. I would’ve thought of science.”

“Hmm, that would’ve also been disappointing,” Sherlock drawled and smirked before picking up the mug of coffee and sipping from it, still maintaining eye contact. It was getting increasingly hard for John to control himself. How Sherlock still seemed to be completely relaxed was beyond him. The door opened and Molly came in with Sherlock’s stuff, breaking the moment. _Bless her_ , John thought.

“Here are your things, Sherlock,” she left them in the middle of the table John was reclining on, and the three of them tried and failed not to look at them. Sherlock sent a glance and a fake smile her way, good enough to fool Molly, but bad enough not to fool John, who frowned at him.

“Thank you, Molly,” he said for the second time in five minutes. He took a few steps until he was inches away from John and then leaned in to grab his things with his left hand. John was pressed between the table and Sherlock’s warm body; he looked everywhere but directly in front of him, held his breath (no need to stare at Sherlock’s long pale neck, and no need to breathe in his scent), and pretended not to notice Molly’s astonished expression. All this happened in less than five seconds.

When Sherlock had retrieved his toys he stayed exactly where he was – pressed up against a speechless, flustered John and looked at Molly again. “John and I will be going now. We’ll just be a moment –”

“– Sure, yes, I’ll just leave and, er, leave you… to it. Goodbye,” she walked quickly out of the lab.

“You’re really warm,” John stated. By then, he’d given up on holding his breath and was openly inhaling and exhaling, head resting in the taller man’s shoulder.

“So I am.”

“Why did you that?”

“Because I felt like it.”

“Yes, but why?” John snaked his arms loosely around his waist. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he pressed in closer and circled his left calf around John’s right. They stayed like that for a moment, until Sherlock pulled back and suggested dinner. And if Sherlock walked with his hand in the small of John’s back, and if he opened every door in the way like a gentleman, well, they didn’t mention it. In fact, they didn’t talk about any of the day’s developments.

 

 

 

Two days later found them sneaking into a suspect’s house. Nothing had happened between them other than the now constant demonstrations that Sherlock was in fact a gentleman – and John was left enamoured by this – and they were planning nothing spectacular for this stakeout; the plan was to look for photo albums and then leave. They didn’t expect Maria to be waiting for them with enough rope in hand to tie their hands up over their heads on hooks attached to her walls. Maria was watching telly, changing channels while keeping an eye on the both of them.

“So, what, will you have us hanging here like dead pigs until you get bored?” Sherlock asked casually.

“Pigs are hung upside down; you are not hung like pigs,” her voice and tone was pleasant, like she was enjoying the company. “No, I’m waiting for my favourite programme to start, and when it’s finished, I’ll think about what I’ll do to you.”

“Oh, mind telling us what we’ll be watching?” John asked, already half bored out of his mind, “Cause I really wanted to go home tonight and watch Game of Thrones.”

“Too bad,” she shrugged. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

“The police won’t take much longer to piece everything together, and they’ll come here immediately.”

“But by then, I’ll be gone and you’ll be dead.” After that, the both of them were silent and she settled in a channel that was airing what sounded like a bad American comedy. John and Sherlock regarded each other and thought of what to do. They could still move their legs freely; the hooks their wrists were bound to weren’t too high above their heads, so their arms weren’t uncomfortable. Sherlock resolved to close his eyes, lean back against the wall, and wait until the police arrived; John waited until Maria was well-engrossed with the programme, and then proceeded to put his Boy Scout training to use. The knot their wrists were tied with looked complicated, but in fact it was easy to undo; the trick was being familiar with the knot, which John was.

 

The show finished and John heard Maria turn off the TV. He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock do the same (and boy, the man looked more bored than John thought possible to be when being held hostage). Sherlock hadn’t noticed that John had managed to unbind himself in the last fifty minutes – after undoing the knot, he circled his wrists with the rope so it wasn’t as noticeable –, and apparently, neither had Maria.

“Well, my show is over and the police still haven’t come. I guess you were wrong,” she looked Sherlock up and down and then grimaced. “I really don’t want to kill you, Mr Holmes, Mr Watson. I don’t like to kill, but I do it if I have to… oh, well,” she walked to the kitchen and grabbed a meat knife. “Who first?” John sprung into action.

He lowered his arms and took advantage of Maria’s shock by kicking her knife hand. She yelped in pain and made for another knife, but John was faster. He kicked the back of her knees and she dropped to the floor with a grunt. He immediately used the rope to bind her wrists together behind her back, his right leg pressing both her legs to the floor, keeping her immobile. She wouldn’t stay quiet and she wouldn’t stop wriggling, so John hit the back of her head and knocked her out. He stood up, cleaned his hands on the front of his trousers, inspected his handiwork and turned around to see Sherlock completely silent, eyes wide, chest heaving.

“Alright?” he asked, voice coarse.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied and he raked his eyes down John’s body. “You’re unhurt,” he stated. “That was a good one, John. Where did you learn about knots? Army training?”

“Nope. Boy Scouts,” John said as he walked to his friend. “Some things you just don’t forget. One doesn’t know when they might be useful,” he stopped right in front of Sherlock, only a breath away. He smiled fondly. “I might have to teach you.”

“Please do,” Sherlock muttered.

“What are we even talking about anymore?” John said quietly as he leaned in and closed his eyes, nudging his nose with Sherlock’s. He closed the minute gap and pressed their lips together. For a few seconds it was just a press of lips against lips, and then John lifted his right hand and placed it in Sherlock’s pulsing neck, and with his other hand, he pressed at his hip. Sherlock responded by bucking forward, parting his lips and moaning softly, both pleased and despairing.

“My wrists are still bound,” he whispered against John’s mouth.

“You look pretty with your hands above your head,” John giggled before closing in again, ignoring Sherlock’s protests that eventually turned into groans. Their kiss grew more heated and soon they were panting for breath, both of John’s hands buried in Sherlock’s scalp. Their tongues sliding hotly against each other, breaths mingling. Sherlock nudged his left thigh between John’s and locked it there; John groaned and let his hand wander down the brunette’s front to apply some pressure in his chest. He could feel Sherlock’s pulse pounding underneath his palm. The room was silent; there was nothing but the wet sounds of kissing and the occasional groan. The sounds of London outside were muffled and unnoticeable, but the sounds of fabric sliding against fabric felt loud like gunshots in this bubble of time.

“John,” Sherlock breathed as he unlocked his lips from the other’s and ducked his head to mouth humid breaths and kisses on John’s neck, biting and sucking bits of skin, eliciting quiet sounds from his partner, who held on to him by his palms on his back. John buried his face on Sherlock’s shoulder and placed gentle kisses there before lifting his face and kissing him again. Sherlock ground his hips against John’s and they both felt the blood leaving their heads, possibly heading somewhere else.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_ …” John groaned and placed his hands on Sherlock’s navel before raking his right hand up his side and up, up, up, until he got to the knot still binding his wrists together. Sherlock groaned.

“ _John_ ,” he said again, his voice an octave lower than usual. He used the strength in his abdomen to lift his legs and circle them around John’s hips. “Oh…”

“Christ, Sh’lock,” John, in order to support Sherlock’s weight, pressed him completely against the wall, the thud of his back hitting the wall unnaturally loud; they ended up grinding their hips together in the process. There was a definite hardening happening there, now. John had one hand trapped between their bodies, pressing at Sherlock’s navel and the other one circling one of the man’s forearms. Their kiss was getting rougher and faster, making it feel less like a snog and more like foreplay when –

“Holy shit.”

After one last wet sound, they broke apart and pretended Lestrade wasn’t at the door. Sherlock unlocked his legs from John and tipped his head back, sighing. “Excellent timing, Lestrade; as always. London’s finest indeed.”

It was Lestrade’s turn to pretend Sherlock’s voice wasn’t raspy and low. John sighed, too, and untied Sherlock’s wrists. As soon as the knot was undone, the detective’s arms fell like rag dolls to his sides. “The suspect is knocked out in the kitchen,” John mumbled embarrassedly, not looking at Greg in the eye – and to be honest, Greg wasn’t particularly keen on seeing their debauched faces.

Greg cleared his throat and nodded, head low. “Right. Thanks. And, um, sorry about that. My team is downstairs… we were following protocol. I have to go in first and well, I was at the door and I heard a groan and I thought it was… well, pain. Sorry,” he said, completely flushed.

“Right, sure,” John said.

“Well, we caught your suspect and you have your evidence. You’ll find that she has a history of robbing; Kristin was her first murder victim, but her original plan was to break into her house while she wasn’t there,” said Sherlock to Lestrade, also not looking at him. Then he turned to John. “John, I didn’t get the chance to grab your arse and I’d quite like to; those trousers do become you very well.”

“Hmm, let’s not keep you waiting then,” John said casually. “And by the way, I may like that shirt a lot, but if we don’t go home right now, I swear I’ll –”

“– Oh, really, again with you two?” Lestrade closed and rubbed his eyes. “Go. Just go. I’ll take care of everything. Cheers.”

“Cheers, mate.” John and Sherlock left the murderer’s flat looking quite dishevelled.

 

John knew that Sherlock knew that John loved him, and Sherlock knew that John knew that Sherlock loved him. They didn’t say it out loud until months later, but for now it was their secret and only theirs to share – to be honest, everybody knows they’re mad for one another, but they like to pretend. Sherlock opened every door for John, and John made sure that Sherlock ate every day; Sherlock made sure that John never wanted to date anyone else ever again, and John called him ‘love’ every once in a while. That’s all they really did about it.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're interested to know what song was Sherlock playing in the violin, it's one of Monti's Czardas. You should listen to it, it's beautiful! (Sherlock plays up until 2:55 in my head)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMOHAcjlIWs  
> I really suggest you to watch this!!


End file.
